


Blood Money

by spacemutineer



Series: Person of Interest: Number Crunch [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch, Episode: s01e11 Super, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical, Post-Episode: s01e10 Number Crunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:42:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18251018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemutineer/pseuds/spacemutineer
Summary: Set between episodes s01e10 Number Crunch and s01e11 Super.As Reese's life hangs in the balance after being shot by Snow's CIA sniper, Harold has little to do but wait and watch and think.Not often are lives saved in a morgue, Harold thought, although he corrected the notion to reflect the fact that particular outcome remained rather in question. Dr. Madani worked with his head down. For the first time in years, the surgeon's hands were stained with blood that was still pumping.Still pumping indeed, still seeping out of the open hole in Reese's side, still spilling onto the gurney and dripping down onto the institutional tile floor below.





	Blood Money

Not often are lives saved in a morgue, Harold thought, although he corrected the notion to reflect the fact that particular outcome remained rather in question. Dr. Madani worked with his head down. For the first time in years, the surgeon's hands were stained with blood that was still pumping. 

Still pumping indeed, still seeping out of the open hole in Reese's side, still spilling onto the gurney and dripping down onto the institutional tile floor below. Harold tried not to calculate how much there was in that slender dark line snaking its way along the cracks in the grout, nor how much there was soaked into his own clothes, slowly drying hard and crusted against his skin. 

This scenario was inevitable and yet he had prepared so little for it. All he had ready was cash and a name. John, should he survive, would need treatment beyond this immediate moment. To recover, he would need medicine, equipment, logistics. Harold considered what he had access to, what would need to be obtained, what skills would need to be acquired. With the CIA actively in pursuit, hiring secure and qualified personnel past Madani would be nigh impossible. 

Which left only one answer. Harold began by looking up videos and articles about intravenous line insertion. It was a place to start and reason enough to look down at his phone and not up at the poorly manned operating theater before him backed by refrigerated slabs and corpses. He supposed he'd have to practice on himself first once he'd stolen the necessary supplies. If he learned with one hand, in theory he should have little trouble afterwards repeating the task with two. It would be an investment, good knowledge to have available for the next time. 

The next time. Christ.

During the third tutorial, this one on the correct bevel angle of the needle to use to secure placement in the vein, his concentration was broken by a hushed exclamation in Arabic, presumably an expletive.

"Dr. Madani?"

The surgeon didn't answer at first, too busy with his hands, first reaching for a clamp and then reaching to check vital signs. Lacking monitors, everything had to be done manually. Without looking up, he raised his voice.

"You. Go upstairs and bring an oxygen tank from the supply. See if you can find a mask in the first aid. Go, go now!"

Harold did as he was told, but it took time. Time to locate the supply room and discover it locked. Time to pick the lock with scavenged paper clips and unsteady fingers. Time to sift through disorganized equipment and haul the necessities downstairs. By then, the dark river on the floor had breached its tile banks to become a small coagulating flood.

Reese's eyes were closed now, and he did not react as Harold slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled the elastic bands of the oxygen mask over his head. All that was recognizable about John's face was distorted under beaded sweat and translucent plastic. 

Once again functionally useless, Harold retreated to his cold metal chair and his phone. Maps were his next goal, first finding a nearby medical supply to burgle, and then selecting an advantageous safehouse. He would need somewhere accessible to a wheelchair at minimum, a full bed at best. Hopefully it would be near a grocery or a bodega, and perhaps a quick takeout restaurant or two if he was lucky. No matter what it would need to be near a pharmacy, preferably one with high quality supplies and less quality security. 

Harold made choices, he made lists, and he made plans, all of which he should have made long earlier.

"It is done." 

Madani's eyes were hard as he pulled off his wet gloves. 

"He will most likely live if he is given antibiotics and fluids, but you should know that there are no guarantees with abdominal wounds. Keep the site clean and keep him sedated, at least for a day or two. Be careful moving him, and take the tank, you'll need it. With the blood loss, oxygenation will be a problem."

He pushed the gurney back toward Harold, observing his patient one last time. The figure lying between them was animated only by shallow, inaudible breaths. 

"Now get him out of here the way you came in. And never contact me again."

"Understood. Thank you, Doctor."

There was no reply. Madani was staring at the money piled on his slab, stacks of bills in amounts he had only dreamed of. In his mind, he surely believed these were illicit gains, the profits of drug smuggling or gun running or worse. 

He thought it was blood money.

He was not wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
